


Safety Off

by frogfarm, somercet



Category: Dirty Pair
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bechdel Test Fail, Best Friends, Clones, Cybersex, F/F, Identity Issues, Multi, Threesome - F/F/M, arc: Fatal but not serious, arc: Sim Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 04:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12597772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/somercet/pseuds/somercet
Summary: Something's wrong with Kei.Ever since the convention, she's been avoiding me.Post-"Fatal But Not Serious". Yuri POV...or is it?





	Safety Off

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up not as dark as originally intended, so double apologies for the general dearth of comedy.

>   
>  "Nope, Yuri lucked out. I mean, c'mon, getting killed in action at age twenty-one...now she'll be young and beautiful forever."  
>    
>  \- Sim Hell

* * *

_"Miss Yuri?"_

"Wha..." My thoughts are already coming together in the darkness. "Oh, yeah. Thass my name."

_"I'm a Type Eight subsidiary AI of the Central Computer. If you want, you can call me Tate."_

"Assa silly name." A groggy, vapid giggle trickles past my lips. Paindorphin implants working overtime. "You godda face?"

_"No default visual. If you'd be more comfortable with a holo --"_

"Don' bother." My hand rises to my face, where exploring fingers find the edge of a bandage over my eyes. "Juss...modulate a bit lower."

_"Volume? Can do."_

I try to swallow. It turns into a cough, that nearly becomes a whole series of them.

_"Are you all right?"_

"Thirsty." I manage to sound out the T. Awake I might be, but I'm feeling no pain. At least on the surface.

 _"You should be sufficiently hydrated."_ The AI sounds like it's chastising me. _"Any other symptoms?"_

"Apart from the pain?" I can feel myself smile. Even that hurts. "No. Actually, I feel..."

The machine emits a discreet cough. _"Yes?"_

"Well clearly, I'd be in rough shape without all these glorious meds." I take a deep breath, ignoring the mild stab of discomfort in my side. "But all things considered? I feel..."

The word _good_ freezes in my throat. I settle for a lame conclusion.

"Not bad." 

_"Some pain is to be expected."_ Tate's apology algorithms are finely tuned. Any farther, and I'd be apologizing to him. _"It wasn't a simple stitch-up. We had to grow you a few new organs."_

The twinge of nausea quickly expands to the beginning of something like fear. "I'm not rejecting them, am I?"

 _"No."_ Is that the tiniest microsecond of hesitation? _"But we also had to reverse engineer some very complex bioviruses that were playing havoc with your neurochemistry."_

"Oh no." A literal chill runs up my spinal cord. "This isn't another one of those stupid nano nightmares, is it?"

That was definitely a pause. _"Nanowhat?"_

"Don't play dumb with me, smarty bot." I'm still too tired and hurting to get angry, yet. But I'm determined to find out what I'm not being told. "All those hidden 3WA files? Hello! Eidetic memory?"

_"Uh...you said you wanted some water?"_

A tube gently prods the corner of my mouth and I bat it away, with a hiss of genuine anger. At least that's what it wants to be. It comes out more like petulant teen.

"You sure you're a Type Eight? They're usually better at distraction." The laugh scrapes my throat on its way out. My skin itches, under the miles of bandages I can feel wrapped around almost every last inch of me.

Another pause far too long for an AI. I'm on the verge of something drastic -- I have no idea what -- when it speaks.

_"You shouldn't remember that."_

"I thought as much." Tate still sounds friendly enough, but ever that much less. Not so much chilly as resigned to the inevitable. "Why?"

_"All your neural pathways were thoroughly scrubbed after surgery. Of course your memories are intact, even if you can't access them."_

The word _yet_ hangs in the air. Unbidden, the blackness that fills my eyes is beginning to bloom with faint swirls of color. My brain responding to pressure on my eyelids, desperately seeking signals.

_"Except that particular memory was deleted by the CC after your last evaluation."_

The only thing scarier than hearing those words is thinking about all their implications. Tate mercifully interrupts my speculation.

_"And you definitely shouldn't have been able to remember how to trigger a supernova via gamma ray laser."_

Unfortunately, it only makes things worse.

My jaw drops in astonishment. I say the first thing that comes to mind. 

"How much damage did we do?"

Apparently, my reflexes are just fine.

  


* * *

  


Turns out Tate doesn't have a lot of personality. Literally; the amount of non-functional code in him is downright minimal. It actually makes me nostalgic for his earlier obfuscation. Still not what you'd call forthcoming, but he's done beating around.

In the space of two minutes, I discover the following:

We are on a dedicated medlab station orbiting a small moon in the Talos Omega system. The remotest of all galactic backwaters, where the 3WA puts things and people to keep them out of the way.

The entire Egawa system was destroyed by supernova, triggered by a gravitically focused graser pulse.

Kei and I are facing the biggest class-action lawsuit in history (though the 3WA will likely have it dismissed).

Kei and I are the only humans on the station.

"So...no 'Kei 'n Yuri Con 2'?"

Tate's frustrated sigh borders on disbelief. _"All right. I'm adjusting your meds."_

So much has gone wrong.

Why don't I feel worse about it?

  


* * *

  


Tate says it's been fourteen hours since our last conversation, sixteen days since the convention turned catastrophe. That if my eyes don't hurt he can remove the mask. Robot arms caress my skin with auto-moistening wipes, cleaning away debris and unsightly gunk, retreating before I have time to register their gentleness. The bed slowly raises its upper half, stopping when I lift my hand. 

The light is low when my eyelids finally open, finding the color temperature at an early sunset. It doesn't soften the room itself, all hard white and plastic. Total surface, no substance. When I ask Tate if he can fix it, the top nanolayer of everything flickers and the floor, walls and furniture (one bed, one table) shift to a combination of blacks and greys. Tate claims the pattern to be visually novel but not too wearying to the eye. But still I have this unaccountable morsel of dread gnawing away deep down, and then those unfocused thoughts come together. 

"Oh, no."

I'm surprised Tate doesn't ask what's wrong. Sounds like he's learning to give me room. I do my best to pin down my racing thoughts.

"Is this a sim? I mean --" It should not be this easy to remain this calm. To be calm period, under these circumstances. "Is this an evaluation?"

_"Not a sim. But it is an evaluation."_

"Great. What am I supposed to do?"

_"I can't tell you."_

"Naturally." I glare at the aesthetically pleasing designs. It still feels like a hollow gesture, devoid of any real emotion.

_"I mean I can't tell you because I don't know."_

"Well, that's stupid." Obviously, this isn't going to be as easy as when Kei and I pretended to be psychic. "How are you supposed to evaluate me?"

_"I'm not the evaluator."_

  


* * *

  


It's not fair.

"You're sure this isn't a sim?"

_"With all the standard philosophical caveats -- positive."_

I imagine Kei remote viewing, chewing her lip as she decides what to do with me. Sitting in judgement, and where the hell did that come from?

"All this sitting around is driving me crazy." I gently slap my forearms to quell the itching. "This is the perfect time for a vacation."

_"Technically, you're on paid leave."_

"Okay, your literal nature? Is back to being annoying." I shut my eyes. "If I'm just going to sit around healing, I should be doing it on a beach. Kei's always telling me to live it up." 

_"Would you like a holo? I have plenty of beaches on file."_

"I'm sick of recovery ward." It comes out louder than I want. Still not angry. "I want to sleep in my own bed."

_"I wouldn't advise walking for another day or two."_

"Fine." I open my eyes to glare at the wall, pretending it's Tate. "Give me a gravpack."

_"Prolonged use of a gravpack will prevent you from regaining strength and muscle mass --"_

"Doctor's warning taken under advisement." I can feel my strength returning as the bones and flesh reknit, organs settling in. "Kei floated around for weeks, milking that broken leg for all the sympathy she could suck up. All I want is to get to my ship."

It takes almost twenty-two minutes to get there, partly because it's a longer trip to the launch bay than I would have guessed. I keep shifting position to dampen the pain, and end up stopping halfway through the long corridor that circles the station. The view is spectacular enough to forget for a moment. Kei; my job. All the people I killed, trying to save them.

The _Lovely Angel_ looms before me, tiny in the immense hangar. I look up at her and think _I'm wearing a stupid hat,_ and stop with a puzzled frown, unable to recall why.

I shake my head, and drift through the open hatch. 

Into the airlock and down the hall, the door to my room already open and a flood of relief warms my heart at these old familiar sights. A wall full of photographs. Cards and flowers galore, and --

My heart flutters as I reach out and take hold of the tiny, bullet-riddled corpse, gingerly turning it in my trembling hands.

"Mister Flopsy?" My voice is a cracked whisper. My fingers caress shreds of stuffing, dangling from gaping exit wounds. "Who did this to you?"

A whine comes from behind me. I whip my head around, taking in the enormous ebony quadruped in the doorway.

"Mughi?" My broken heart leaps again in my chest. Our faithful pet who is so much more; our valued and trusted companion; our friend with EMF detection and manipulation abilities, not to mention horrible taste in soap operas. I can scarcely believe my eyes.

"I missed you, buddy!" I float toward him with outstretched arms. "C'mere and give me a --"

An even louder whine greets me, as the genegineered feline backs away.

"Mughi!" I'm too stunned to move. "What --"

With a clatter of toenails scrabbling on metal, Mughi turns and flees down the corridor, leaving me staring after him in shock.

I don't realize I've thought it until I wonder if I said it out loud.

"I think I killed myself."

  


* * *

  


Under my bandages no longer feels like the itch of healing skin, but the semi-psychosomatic pain of actual memory. Over and over, the searing heat of hyperpropelled tungsten carbide shells tearing through my gut, three rounds in a perfect straight line from my toned midriff to right between my breasts (Best of 3WA, 2139 calendar) to just under my exquisitely sculpted collarbones. I can only imagine the shred job they must have done inside.

Except that's not what happened.

I was shot once. Not with a pistol, but with a plasma rifle. My milky-white skin evaporating on contact, the smell of burnt flesh thick in the air as I collapsed, belching tendrils of smoke from my mouth, the gaping hole in my torso. Kei's screams tearing through the comlink, echoing in the sluggish meat of my brain as she rode a headless corpse down the side of a collapsing building, headed to flaming doom; hearing my own voice, pleading with my own ship to save her, and why wasn't the _Lovely Angel_ listening to me?

Because I reset the lockout passphrase. Right before I...

 _Flying high above the ruins, looking down on the fruits of my labor. Every standing structure toppled and/or in flames; rejoicing in my rage, even as I despair to realize no amount of destruction can fill this gaping void..._

The world wobbles on its axis. My hands flail for purchase, finding the frame of the bed as everything spins out of control.

_Staring down at Kei's unconscious body, curled into fetal position. My pistol hovering inches from her head, the floating virtual targeting grid framing the side of her wonderfully photogenic skull. So easy to remove this redheaded regret machine from my life. All I have to do is pull the trigger..._

Memories overlap inside my head, overwhelming with nausea, conflicting double vision blurring my sight. Somewhere, a siren screams in my ears.

_Floating in the pool atop the convention hotel. Blue sky filling my vision, I shut my eyes tight against its beauty, unable to pull myself from the fetid mire of negative emotion preying on my soul. Desperate for motivation, to feel anything other than this black hole of despair. I disengage painblockers and slowly lift my gun, pressing the barrel into my hand..._

My stomach rebels in a vain attempt to spew up a whole lot of nothing. I let go the bed frame and lay there, facing the floor, arms out to my sides as I try not to roll over in midair. 

"Tate?" I whimper. "Could really use...some water..."

_got her now got her die bitch die with your big scared pretty eyes let me in ill give you something to look at_

_ANTONIO_

_headbutt to my jaw, kick to the face sends me flying into the table and the paralysis is gone, ready to tear myself apart with my bare hands_

_too late_

_Stormbringer falls from my hand and bounces, again, the nanoblade mollywire carving a neat semicircle in the wall. A section of glass and metal falls away, leaving blue and empty sky in its wake. And the figure tied to a chair, falling through that hole with pure panic in her eyes, looks suspiciously like --_

_"Dopamine's crashing --"_

"You said she'd be fine! You said! You said --"

Ladies and gentlemen?

I believe a fade to black is in order.

  


* * *

  


I'm back in the recovery ward when I come to. Tate's gone with a basic black for the furnishings, muted blues for the room. Appropriate.

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself."

I would freeze up at the sound of that voice. Except every indicator, conscious and otherwise, is telling me it isn't real. Starting with the fact that it read my mind.

"Seriously? You're gonna quibble ontology when you're still holding in your own guts?"

"Excuse me?" I blink to verify the visual. "You _flunked_ intro to philosophy, and -- why am I arguing with a hallucination?"

"You should be more careful." Can't-Be-Me pouts and strides over to the bed, peering down at me with keen interest. "Words can be so hurtful."

"You made a sun go supernova." The enormity of it is blossoming fresh in my mind; the sheer scale, even relative to our previous 'incidents'. "Killed... all those people, and they're blaming _me_ \--"

"Interesting interpretation." The false Yuri cocks her head. "Not really _accurate_ , but...points for creativity."

"It wasn't me." I try to sit up, falling back with a hiss of pain.

"Denial." This time it's a click of the tongue. "Also not a surprise. Textbook case, really."

I should be furious. In tears, screaming my throat raw. I feel these things, and yet they aren't being muffled or shut down, they're just...over there, somewhere. I swallow as I stare up at myself. 

"You're in my head."

"Oh, honey." Her laugh is tinged with sadness. "You have no idea."

A shiver runs through me as she leans down, close enough to kiss, and I shut my eyes. No feel of warm breath on my cheek; no trademark scent of lilacs.

"Haven't you wondered why Kei's been avoiding you?"

  


* * *

  


When I'm awake again, only two hours have gone by. My genetic upgrades are accelerating the healing, already reducing the need for sleep. My insides are still shifting a bit more than I'd like, but I'm disgustingly rested and alert. Also, for the record, so emotionally well-balanced it makes me want to puke.

"Tate."

A subdued psychoacoustic hum. _"Yes, Miss Yuri?"_

I struggle for the proper phrasing. "What meds am I on right now?"

 _"Fluoxycycline for infections. Immunosupplements -- standard regimen."_ Another micropause. _"Tyrosine."_

I peel back the sheets with a muffled groan.

"I may have flunked philosophy, but I did squeak through biochem." I pull off the unflattering gown and toss it into the corner. Not like my modesty needs protecting; still covered in gauze from my neck to my ankles, even the palms of my hands.

_"Like I said -- your hormones were shot, worse than your organs. We had to keep you in a coma until all of your neurotransmitters were stabilized."_

"And what else was I on? Precursor-wise?"

 _"You want a complete list?"_ Tate seems to do sarcasm well enough. _"If you feel like playing doctor --"_

"Never mind." On a normal day I wouldn't think twice about playing footsie with an AI, but a subsidiary intelligence of the Central Computer is a beast of another color. Only real question is if I want to start asking real questions.

_"I wouldn't recommend a shower yet --"_

"Chillax." One foot in front of the other, not falling down; watching my toes wiggle as I approach the sink, raising my head to stare into the mirror.

_"...first, though, it is my sad duty to debunk a really hot rumor that's been sweeping the convention..."_

"Tate?" I frown, trying to discern my reflection's state of mind. "Did you say something?"

_"Kids, that wasn't the real Yuri our sources spotted at a club last night, getting drunk, felt up and tattooed -- but rather, a remarkably good Yuri imitator."_

The hot sting of alcohol floods my senses, in a blur of recollection.

_"Sorry to disappoint you..."_

_Prowling the dance floor, the girl's resemblance to Kei is what first catches her eye, despite the blonde hair. Surrounded by thousands, it's hard to tell who's paired off but her new friend is starstruck at hello, eagerly following her lead. All those years she sat on her hands, watching Kei sleep her way around the universe, and what the hell?_

_It's only a sim._

_"Your ass in those cutoffs makes me want to undress you with my teeth."_

_She lifts a coy eyebrow from behind her daiquiri. "Is it better than Kei's?"_

_The girl's eyes twinkle, echoing her lilting tone. "Are you proposing a taste test?"_

_Yuri affects disappointment. "Don't tell me you're one of the thousands who's already tried hers."_

_"Not yet." The bravery falters, as if the girl is rarely this brazen. "But I'd rather do you."_

_This kind of risk-taking deserves a reward. "Tell you what. I'll give you a personalized autograph. All you gotta do, is..."_

_The girl swallows as Yuri leans over the table and whispers in her ear. Looks at Yuri, and licks her lips._

_"Can my boyfriend come?"_

_"Depends." Yuri gives the stud an appraising once-over. "Let's find out."_

_Turns out the guy's so in love with himself, he jacks into Yuri's shared feed before she can even get his pants off. She can feel him behind her eyes, admiring his own sculpted abdomen as it gently brushes her pert, upturned nose. Behind her the blonde is tugging Kei's stolen cutoffs over Yuri's slim hips, parting her cheeks and bestowing cooing, admiring kisses all over before snaking and slithering her tongue right up where it can do the most good. Yuri groans, and the boyfriend takes advantage of this to slip the head of his cock between her open lips, staring up at himself through her._

_Except it's not Yuri doing this. Boring old demure Yuri, the goodiest of good girls, would be too ashamed. Too selfless to abandon herself to this anonymous girl's attempts to please her, practically genuflecting at the altar of her ass. That Yuri would have gazed up at the man with pure adoration, wanting only to please him. Would be horrified at the idea of deliberately disabling her gag reflex before jacking into the girl behind her; watching her own ass being eaten out as the boyfriend grabs her hair with a growl, thrusting harder into her now slack and unresisting mouth. She can feel her asshole twitch and spasm around the girl's insistently probing oral muscle, which she swears must be genetically lengthened; silently screams her frustration at lacking full control, unable to force that tongue to push deeper still, or reach back and sink her fingers into soaking, rented flesh. But her new toy ignores the burning ache deep inside, wholly focused on pleasuring her idol._

_In desperation, Yuri returns to her own body, reveling in being simultaneously worshipped and violated. Pushes both hands down between her thighs as groans and shouts fill the room, frantically sending herself over the edge as the boyfriend empties himself in her. Spud's got all the right implants, natch, from increased semen production to minimum refractory period. But it's not enough, and the frustration of her newest best fan continuing to ignore her own needs makes Yuri physically disengage and reverse position, offering up her thoroughly lubricated ass for an enthusiastic plundering by the boyfriend as she buries her face in dripping cunt, nearly folding the girl's body in half, trying to crawl right up inside far as she can..._

_"...but rather, a remarkably good Yuri imitator."_

The voice in my memory echoes and fades, down into nothing.

_"Sorry to disappoint you..." ___

I'm standing in the middle of the room, looking wildly around, and freeze at the sight of myself in the mirror. Long black hair cascades from under the gauze on my head, framing now barely visible bruises. As I look down, I see the bandage on my right hand is coming loose.

I reach out and oh-so-hesitantly peel it back.

A chibi Yuri sticks out its tongue, in a silent raspberry.

  


* * *

  


I don't know why my hands aren't shaking as I slowly pull away more bandages, revealing more and more skin, along with more purple biofoil. The tattoos cover my arms and legs, my chest, even my back as I look over one shoulder in the mirror. Pithy sayings and warning labels alternate with more miniature caricatures of myself engaging in randomized subversive activities, along with occasional reminders to anyone reading that I am, in fact, the baddest of all bad asses.

 _The memory of being gutshot; of being the shooter._ My brain keeps trying and failing to reconcile them and I double over, stomach cramping with the urge to hurl myself inside out.

"You still don't get it, do you?" My double's nonexistent voice sounds so real as her fingers caress my fevered, sweating skin. I imagine the tattoos making faces at her.

"You're not real." I lift my head and stare into her eyes, which are disturbingly big and sad. "'Cause if you were...this would have to be a sim."

Her fingers descend slowly into the valley between my breasts, coming to a halt.

"Plasma can actually do a lot more secondary damage than most people realize." She places her palm flat on my chest, swallowing as she feels the beat beneath. "The heat. It...cooks things."

I know what she's saying, and yet I don't. Can't look away.

"They grew as many new organs for you as they could. Reverse engineered every last biovirus. But between Sleet's copy protection, and your immune response..."

I know what's coming, and yet I don't.

"I wasn't going to live." She holds up our hands before my unwilling gaze, fingers tightly entwined. "One of us had to."

Her words echo in my mind.

_I gave you my heart._

  


* * *

  


For untold moments, I sit in silence.

My breathing and pulse are normal. I stand there at the mirror, staring at my confused reflection, for the life of me wondering why I'm not taking this all out on everything around me. More moments go by as I regard myself, looking more confused as I try to feel more angry. I imagine my fist hitting the mirror, shards hitting the floor, blood welling up from my knuckles.

I don't try to take on the synthglass, stronger than steel. Instead I finally lash out at the real glass drinking-glass, catching it between my hand and the wall. Don't even pull the blow at the last second, and I stare at the crimson streaks on my hand as the shards evaporate from the floor.

_"Let me stitch that up --"_

"Don't touch me." And still I'm not angry, except that I'm angry about not being angrier.

 _"I have authority on this station to conduct all necessary medical procedures, including any steps deemed appropriate to ensure compliance."_ Tate recites this fact as blandly as a weather report.

I wash away the blood, watching in silence as the robotic arm descends, quickstitching me up in one point eight seconds flat. Then I turn and walk over to the dresser.

 _"Your hormones should be stabilized at this point."_ The arm disappears into the ceiling. _"No residual depression or other abnormal state."_

"So this is normal?" I pick up Stormbringer from the dresser and activate the nanoblade with a click and a hum. "I'm not on any psychotropes?"

 _"I can guarantee no outside hormones or mood-altering drugs are in your system."_ Tate still sounds so reasonable I want to wring his nonexistent neck. _"Your body is hardware; your mood is the answer your machine is giving back. If you don't like the answers you're getting, don't blame the machine."_

"So says the machine," I chuckle mirthlessly.

_"If you're planning on doing something hazardous --"_

"Shut." I take a deep breath, let it out. "Up."

I limp back over to the mirror. Grabbing the mass of long black hair at the base, feeling the static sensation of the blade passing near my skin as I slice it off in one stroke. Let it fall from my fingers into the sink as I look at the result: Not bald, not crew cut, but shorter than Kei's. Quite fetching, if I weren't staring like a damn bot at my new face. Trying to hold onto the other set of memories but they're fading fast --

I slam the water on, as hot as it goes. Scrub and scrub at the tattoos on my hands, until their word balloons say OUCH and they cry little biofoil tears.

_"That's not going to --"_

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP" 

and I'm not exactly hurling myself into the shower more like stumbling in a graceless lump, try to turn the water up to scalding but the damn AI overrides the setting, leaves it just this side of pain as I sink down against the wall trying to sob except my damn hormones insist on feeling so perfectly normal all I can do is every so often make these weird pathetic groans.

And as I sit there I hear the hiss of a sliding door, see a silhouette standing outside the shower. Hear the click-whine of a handheld, that means:

 _safety off_

I shut my eyes.

"Just do it."

  


* * *

  


I'm still sitting here.

"You didn't kill me when you had the chance." Is that a quiver in Kei's voice? "Give me a reason to return the favor."

An unhealthy giggle escapes me. "You're talking to the wrong Yuri." 

The door opens and Kei reaches in, shutting the water off. I look up but she's already turned away. 

"You need to snap out of it." A towel flies through the air to land in my lap. "Sleet messed with your hormones. That's just your neurochems talking."

I'm actually getting irritated. Good old Kei. "This is _not_ depression the size of a planet."

"Just Antonio-level angst."

Something snaps. The outrage must show, because Kei presses her advantage.

"And I'm sorry I brought him up and embarrassed you in front of trillions of people."

I manage a chuckle bitter as death. "Some apology."

"Huh?"

I look up to the old familiar confusion. Kei always wore it so well.

"What do you mean?"

"That wasn't even me." The words are empty even as they leave my lips. 

"Yes." Kei kneels in front of me, laser pistol still at the ready. "It was."

I'm not sure how to take this. I settle for the obvious.

"And I'm sorry I dropped a building on you."

Kei lifts one eyebrow. "That _was_ me."

"Yeah." I offer a tiny smile. Trying to look on the bright side. "But I didn't shoot you."

"I saw the Lovely Angel's security recording." Kei shifts on her heels. "You almost did."

I drop my gaze, ashamed.

"I couldn't."

She sits down beside me, fussing the towel around my shoulders. Tattoos ripple and dance in the wake of her touch.

"Why?"

"You said it." I don't dare look at her. "You're my best friend."

Her voice is wondering, with the tiniest hitch at the end. "You really hate yourself that much?"

I start to answer, and stop. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize I really don't.

The tiny static hum in the air is gone. I look over to see the pistol laying at her side, Kei examining my newly shorn hair with an uneasy envy.

"That's the kind of impulsive decision I can get behind."

I fumble for words. "What are you doing?"

"A personality assessment." Her eyes shine as she clasps my arm. Under her thumb, the dancing tattoo squirms and kicks its heels, seemingly unable to move.

"The Central Computer said for you to be cleared for active duty, I have to sign off."

I shake my head, even as I know it's true. "You've got to be kidding."

"We've got a lead on Sleet's location."

That gets my immediate and undivided attention plus. Kei nods.

"That's right. Tissue samples, personality constructs -- everything he stole from 3WA."

My head whirls with possibilities. But she's already drawing her com, launching a holocap from an obviously hidden cam.

 _"These two are renowned for being disaster magnets."_ The laboratory is grunge to the maximum, clearly illicit to the core. The speaker, a cyborg of indeterminate sex, stands beside the thankfully one and only Kevin Sleet as the two of them stand over a nude and sleeping me, freshly decanted from the vat.

 _"And your bosses,_ " the cyborg continues, _"have devised a theory that explains just why catastrophe always dogs their high heels."_

Sleet nods, his eyes invisible behind dark glasses.

 _"This little experiment should confirm our hypothesis and kill off the original pair of bitches in the bargain."_ The rogue hacker shakes his head in admiration. _"You gotta love it."_

Kei shuts off the playback. When her hand finds mine, there's fire in her eyes. 

"Want to help get us back?"

  


* * *

  


After much convincing on Kei's part, mostly through treats and threats of cancelling the soap network subscription, Mughi very reluctantly emerges from the ceiling in the supply closet. On cue he spots me and freezes, and a robot arm gives him an encouraging prod. He falls into my arms with a squawk, paws in the air, staring up at me in confusion and terrified hope.

Talk about a day for revelations. Did you know Kei's a really good seamstress? At least with bullet holes in stuffed animals. _Just like the real thing,_ she grins at me as the busy needle flies, and already I'm falling in love. First time all over again.

I'm keeping the biofoil. Turns out it's smarter than I thought, and already starting to adapt. Anything to help Kei literally read my moods, when words inevitably fail. And I think it's smart to keep a reminder.

I am _really_ mad, bad and dangerous to know.

I still mourn the loss of everyone I killed. I can never make it right.

But I know how to make it better. And Kevin Sleet is going to feel each and every one of those deaths before we hand him over to the Central Computer. That's a promise, from the Lovely Angels.

The Dirty Pair.

* * *

Setting Orange, 13 The Aftermath, 3183

**Author's Note:**

> I quite liked Adam Warren's first solo takes on these characters: All the charm and fluff of the originals with a healthy dose of complexity in character, story and world-building, and just enough darkness/"realism" to nicely flavor the stew. I thought FATAL BUT NOT SERIOUS gave us a hell of a jumping-off point for a sequel, and was disappointed when Warren chose to miss a huge opportunity and rebooted his continuity. Consider this short story as the equivalent of the 8-page "I Honestly Hate You" that fits between SIM HELL and FATAL.


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